


curiosity

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: AU where Lord Shaxx is an Exo, Exo Warlock Guardian, F/M, Fluff, Light (Destiny), Mute Guardian, Romance, Sign Language, and he's always soft spoken when i talk to him in destiny 1, because i love exos, identity crisis, listen i love shaxx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 07:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: The Crucible Handler never takes off his helmet, so the Guardians assume that he's either Human or Awoken.





	curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> me @ shaxx: he could hold so many guardians with those arms

_She._ (title indicative of preferred gender, used in lieu of name)

 _Is._ (to be, to exist, to hold matter on the earth, to own gravity, to have an identity)

 _A._ (acknowledges an existence, single unit, membership of a group)

 _Warlock._ (a Guardian able to harness the arcane, distinguished from other classes by cosmetic armor, known as a Bond)

* * *

Coming back from death is like waking up from a long slumber. There is the initial hesitation, the desire to keep sleeping, before the adrenaline of Light pours through a Guardian and spurs them to act. Leaping into combat. Condensing Light into weapons that rippled like lightning or consumed like black holes. As long as you were in motion, as long as you stayed alive just a little longer.

Even waking up in Old Russia, face-to-face with the Ghost, its first commands were _Go, go, go, we mustn’t be found by the Fallen--_

Catching your reflection in muddied pools makes your gait slow, then stop. There is a glow emanating from your eyes and your mouth; your skin is but a steel and metal exoskeleton. _Exo._ They call you an Exo, which means that no one knows who you are, who you were, and why you sold your body to machine--

\--and then carry on with their lives because your identity is not their responsibility.

* * *

Others discover there is arcane power in your fingertips, so they call you a Warlock in the same breath.

* * *

Your Ghost tries, it really does.

It downloads the entire Tower mainframe to name each and every person of interest. _Ikora, Zavala, Cayde-6, The Speaker, Shaxx, Banshee-44--_

“Wait,” you sign at the Ghost, “Why are there numbers after the names?”

It whirrs inquisitively. The Light within the white plates pulse steady like a heartbeat, then Ghost replies, “Exos typically have their memories rebooted to avoid complete shutdown. The number indicates how many times they have been reworked. Cayde, six times. Banshee, forty-four times.”

“And me?” You do not have a name, but ask anyways.

It projects a hologram of your profile, an image preserved in more than just its memory banks. You can see that there is faint scars only a shade darker than your gray exoskeleton. Ghost shivers and enhances the image to show a styled barcode and the number “37” stamped between your eyes.

* * *

“What is Lord Shaxx? Human, Awoken, or Exo?”

Ghost pauses as it flicks through its database. “Hmm. Unspecified. I’m aware that it has been discussed. He's not Exo because they generally have numbers after their names.”

Its Light tickles your fingers as you reach out and brush against the translucent wisps. Ghost’s voice becomes thoughtful and wondrous, just as you are; it knows you better than anyone else. After all, the two of you are bonded together by the Traveller.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

* * *

When you find him in the Tower, just beyond the Vanguard’s domain, he is the most soft-spoken individual you have ever encountered. You’ve yet to enter matches with his screaming over comms; but all the rumors about a shrieking Crucible Handler seem to evaporate as you draw near--

“Evening,” Lord Shaxx greets you softly, hands on his hips, like he’s bracing against waves of Vex legions, not a petite Exo Warlock and her Ghost. He towers easily and your gears whirr and calculate that he must be at least triple your weight. “What can I do for you?”

“Umm.” The Ghost flickers nervously. “My Guardian had a question for you.”

The painted helmet cocks in your direction. “Yes, Guardian?” Shaxx asks expectantly.

You feel Light scorching your palms. As if they’re being held over engine thrusters or dipped in molten lava. You flick your gaze between Shaxx and the Ghost several times, illumination cores in your eyes and mouth blinking with no clear message.

“Another time, maybe,” Shaxx suggests politely. “Come back when you have your voice.”

Ghost flits around. “Oh, Lord Shaxx, she--”

“--doesn’t have a voice,” you finish, signing at the Titan.

Shaxx knows how to read sign language; and when he signs back, he does so with his entire body, shifting his hips and heels to gesture as loudly as his voice. Already his image has lost its intimidation. Now his hands are busy, dancing through the air instead of posing as the fierce and unrelenting Crucible Handler.

“I completely understand,” he says aloud as he flicks his hand upwards, “as most of the new arrivals are the same. Decades without being revived surely takes a toll on the soul.”

You nod.

Lord Shaxx leans forward curiously. “And your question, Guardian?”

“Are you,” you sign before courage flees you, “Human or Awoken?”

“Hmph. Why?”

“Curiosity,” you begin, “was a mechanical rover meant to explore the Gale Crater on Mars long before humans learned how to navigate the stars themselves. For a number of years, it sent vital data and information which helped usher in the Golden Age of space exploration.”

Shaxx lets out a booming laugh, throwing back his helmet; its shine catches the ceiling lights and reflects all around the dark Vanguard halls. “Smartly phrased, Guardian,” he chuckles. “A prime example of why Warlocks are also known as scholars.” He clears his throat. “But you are not the first to express your curiosity, and I see no reason why I should answer.”

The Ghost clicks, and you glance up at the bobbing machine. “I see,” Ghost chirps, “so you want a reason. You treat it like a game, and the prize is your identity. Only a few know what you are.”

“Very few,” Shax clarifies.

You raise your hands-- and then shake your head. Step back. Hopeless to even try.

“What?”

You shake your head again.

Now _his_ interest is peaked. “Guardian, do you have something else to say?” Lord Shaxx says humorously.

Your hands move of their own accord, palms burning until the heat becomes blindingly cold, and you do not know if it is the Traveller’s Light or the Warlock’s Void that speaks for you. “I believed--” you say slowly-- “I could find similarity.”

“What? How?”

“Because I do not believe you are either Human or Awoken. I think you are like me.”

* * *

Winning Shaxx’s trust was a lot more difficult than any fight against Guardian or Cabal. First, you had to enroll in the tournaments and make something of yourself. Ikora’s advice for honing your different Warlock abilities definitely ignited attention as you effortlessly switched between hurling voids and resurrection.

Loss was not an easy enemy to dignify.

You’d spend more time re-watching your defeated rounds than actually improving your track record in the playing field. The Ghost would rest in the crook of your neck, its Light sensitive and tingling against your exoskeleton, however reassuring.  “They don’t call it the Crucible for nothing,” Ghost murmurs. The flame, the crux, the instrument meant to temper your desire for achievement.

And while your conversation with Lord Shaxx left both Guardians unsure, he eventually re-established rapport as a mentor and guide. You made no mention of being Exo, Human, nor Awoken, though the thought lingers at the back of your minds.

His compliments turn to praise, then affection.

 _Shaxx._ To sign his name, you curl your fingers to the palm and crook your index finger, then make a sweeping motion next to your head that mimics the full horn on his helmet.

Your power burns bright, and he’s but a moth drawn to the flame. A choice, a decision to tamper with your Light, your character, your blinking smile or trilling chirps at each victory. Similarly, Shaxx dragged you away from wallowing in defeat. He’d encouraged you to relight the tallow, to reignite the Light that binds you as a Guardian. His mind and body are strong, but his capacity for love is an achievement you can only dream of.

When he’d grabbed both of your hands and _held_ them, the tension from before fades to silence. Your Ghosts sparked to existence as you stared dumbly at each other. _Of course,_ his Ghost stammered first, _Boundaries. This wouldn’t affect his judgement nor her performance in matches._

 _Of course,_ your Ghost babbled. _Besides, it’s not unusual for Guardians to find solace in each other._

_We might’ve seen this coming._

The Ghosts swivel round and glare at your stockstill figures.

* * *

The confession comes later.

It happens in the aftermath of a Crucible elimination match, narrowly matched with both fireteams dragged into overtime as Titans, Hunters, and Warlocks poured every bit of Light into their reputation on the battlefield. However, it was the last bullet from a rare hand cannon that ends the match-- a single shot that manages to pierce the opponent’s helmet and allows Lord Shaxx to award victory to your team.

“Astounding!” he crows as he picks you up and swings you round his private quarters.  “And you were _shy_ to join Crucible matches? You were _made_ for them!”

“Did you see that fusion rifle in the first round?” you ask him.

“Did I? The way it pierced the sky like a greatsword? It felt like I was right besides you! Why, if I had half the caliber and all of your instinct--”

His deep laugh rumbles and sends shivers through your whole body. Shaxx brings you close so he can knock his head against yours. Your ancient-warped Warlock helmet and his loud, proud Titan helmet come together with a deft yet gentle _clunk!_ in the sudden quiet.

“Fight _forever_ , Guardian,” he whispers breathlessly.

His heavy gauntlets rest on your waist-- he could wrap an arm around your entire waist if he so wished. Your own hands reach up to cup his helmet, then slide up to stroke the horns. You run your fingers along its subtle, uneven ridges, touch as gentle as if they were his own skin or surface, whatever he was. Bone is a rare resource nowadays; somewhere in your databanks, you’re reminded of Old Earth ivory or animal keratin.

Lord Shaxx slowly removes your helmet and sets it down on a desk. You tilt your head and chirp happily. He laughs again, then brushes his right thumb directly across your forehead, on the old Exo brand of that returns with each death and rebirth. His touch emits so much Light that it makes your lightcores blink and flicker for a moment in sheer stimulation.

“37,” he reads aloud. “Incredible.”

“Old,” you reply sarcastically. “Almost as old as Banshee.”

“Younger than me.” You blink and take a step back, and the Titan lowers his hand. Something tender, something melancholy enters his voice. “Shaxx,” he says as he makes the sweeping name sign. “S-H-A-X-X.”

His crooked index finger pauses in the symbol for ‘X’.

“Double X’s, like they used to write numbers when Old Earth was much older. It means ‘Twenty’, but hardly anyone makes the connection. Are you surprised?”

“No.” You sign slowly and truthfully. “I think I always knew. But why do you tell me now?”

Lord Shaxx sighs, and he pulls you close again. His tawny furs brush against your cheek as you lean your head against his shoulder.

“Because,” he says, “you were looking for another Exo who wanted comfort in someone similar, someone to relate-- and I failed to provide guidance. I cannot change the past. Now I want you in my present and future, for as long as you’ll have me.”


End file.
